Rhiannon

Elsewhere there are the following legends:

In the way between Tingwall and Scalloway, there is an high stone standing in form of an obelisk as some ancient monument, concerning which the people have various traditions, some saying that in the Strath of Tingwall, where this stone is erected, there was a bloody fight between the Danes and the old inhabitants or natives of this country, and that the Norwegian or Danish general was killed in this place, where the stone is set up.

Others report that one of the Earls of Orkney had a profligate and prodigal son, who for this cause being animadverted upon by his father, fled to Zetland, and there built a castle or a strong house for himself within a loch at Stroma, within two miles of Tingwall to the west, the ruins whereof are yet to be seen: his father not being satisfied with his escape, and the way he took for his defence, sent from Orkney four or five men to pursue him, to whom he gave orders that they should bring his son to him either dead or alive: the son thereupon not finding himself safe enough in his castle, made his escape from the castle, where the pursuers lay in ambush, but was overtaken by them in the Straith of Tingwall and killed there, whereupon this monument was erected. The pursuers took off his head, and carried it with them to his father, but in so doing they were so far from gratifying of him, that he caused them all to be put to death, notwithstanding of the orders given by him.

From Brand’s ‘A Brief Description of Orkney, Zetland, Pightland-Firth and Caithness’ (from I think 1701 originally, but I found it in ‘A general collection of the best and most interesting voyages and travels in all parts of the world’, which was put together by John Pinkerton in 1809 – you can read it on Google Books.)

The narrator has just visited the kirk of Tingwall when something catches his eye:

The novelty, however, engaged our attention most particularly, and we were at a loss to conjecture for what purpose it stood in its place. It was a large, erect, quadrangular stone, which, if cleared from a heap of rubbish that surrounded its base, might have measured in height six feet and upwards; but its irregularly fractured summit seemed to say, that formerly it had reared a prouder crest beside the waters of the Tingwell.

An oblique vein, of a different kind of stone, traversed its centre, and an old man, approaching from some cottages that were situated at the feet of the hills, informed us, with a look of doubt, that he had heard that a “sealgh” or sea-horse, having been fastened with a rope to the “Standing Stane,” the efforts of the animal to get loose had impressed that mark around it.

He likewise told us, that there had been a large flat stone lying near the upright pillar, which was said to have covered the bones of the “overseer” of Scalloway Castle, who was interred here; but he assured us, that after breaking the slab to pieces, to form the contiguous mull, he had sought in vain for remnants of mortality.

There was a look of peculiar originality in the face and person of our ancient informant, as well as a singular tone in his voice, and while he conversed with William, I included his portrait in a sketch I took of the Standing Stane, which being completed, we again set forward, with the unwelcome intelligence that the town we sought was “twa moils mair ahead.”

From ‘Tales of a voyager to the Arctic ocean’ by Robert Pierce Gillies (1826).

There is a photo on the RCAHMS site here – perhaps you can see the traces of the sea-horse’s struggle.

Near the boundary line, between this parish and Monmouthshire, is a small tumulus, like those over graves in country church-yards, with a stone at each end, without any inscription, called Bedd y gwr hir, the giant or tall man’s grave, but who the hero here interred was, or at what period his death happened is not known; the legends and tradition of the country inform us that a person of very extraordinary stature, above ten feet high, a chieftain of Blaenau Gwent, having been slain in the valley, was brought thus far by his friends, who were desirous of burying him honourably on his own demesne, but that a sudden fall of snow in the night, prevented their further progress, and compelled them to desposit the corpse here.

Part of the old road from Abergavenny to Llandilo Crescenny, about half a mile from the town, is called Cefn beddagor, corruptly from Cefn y bedd y gwr, or gwr hir, or the ridge of the giant’s grave, and from this corruption probably sprung the giant Agros, the supposed founder of a castle at Abergavenny, long prior to that of Drogo de Baladun; the tradition also in the neighbourhood of Llanelly may have formerly buried this same giant among their mountains, if so we must reverse the tale and suppose he was an inhabitant of the valley, and that he fell not far from this spot, in an attack upon the Gwentians: to hazard a conjecture as to his name or the time he lived would be idle, all we can fairly infer from the former being lost, is that he was of very remote antiquity.

From ‘A history of the county of Brecknock’ by Theophilus Jones (1809), who got unnecessarily tangled up in the second part of that quote.

At Slieve-na-Glaise, in Clare, is a dolmen, to which an old woman gave the name of Carrig-na-Glaise, that is, the Rock of the Sea-Green (Cow) – the word bo, “a cow,” being understood, as it is in the name of the ancient MS., Leabhar na h-Uidhri, that is “Book of the Dun (Cow).” After she had told me the story of how the poor enchanted cow, from whose udders used to flow all the rivers on the mountain-side, had been tricked by an impious old hag, who, in place of a milk-pail, had milked her into a sieve, and how, in consequence, she had either died of grief or deserted that locality for ever, I ventured to ask her the question whether there were any cows of that colour to be seen nowadays – whether, that is to say, she applied the term glas to the colour of any of the cows we saw on the mountain. She replied by a decided negative*, and added that the enchanted cow was the only one of that colour ever known, and that she travelled through Ireland from end to end in the space of a single day. The name of the Smith Gavida, the cow’s owner, in the tale, as still related in Donegal, was not remembered by my informant, although the name of one of the hills near by, on which were several dolmens, Glasgivneach, proved that it was once current there.

From ‘The dolmens of Ireland’ by William Copeland Borlase (1897).

*Of course not, you idiot.

This country is well sheltered on every side (except the northern) by high mountains; on the western by those of cantref Bachan; on the southern, by that range, of which the principal is Cadair Arthur, or the chair of Arthur, so called from two peaks rising up in the form of a chair, and which, from its lofty situation, is vulgarly ascribed to Arthur, the most distinguished king of the Britons. A spring of water rises on the summit of this mountain, deep, but of a square shape, like a well, and although no stream runs from it, trout are said to be sometimes found in it.

This mountain is now called, by way of eminence, the Van, or the height, but more commonly, by country people, Bannau Brycheinog, or the Brecknock heights, alluding to its two peaks. Our author, Giraldus, seems to have taken his account of the spring, on the summit of this mountain, from report, rather than from ocular testimony. I (Sir R. Colt Hoare) examined the summits of each peak very attentively, and could discern no spring whatever. The soil is peaty and very boggy. On the declivity of the southern side of the mountain, and at no considerable distance from the summit, is a spring of very fine water, which my guide assured me never failed. On the north-west side of the mountain is a round pool [.. from which] issues a small brook [..] I am rather inclined to think, that Giraldus confounded in his account the spring and the pool together.

From Sir Richard Colt Hoare’s translation of Giraldus Cambrensis’s Itinerary and Description of Wales, of the 12th century.

I don’t know what’s here but it sounds interesting.

Mr. James Murton forwarded the following notice of the “Buck Stone” at Silverdale, near Lancaster:

“I send a pencil sketch and also a photograph of a curious monument of a past age, which ihas not been noticed in any archaeological work that I am aware of, and may, perhaps, be considered worth mentioning in our Journal. It is known locally as the ‘Buck Stone’, and the Ordnance surveyors calle it ‘The Rocking Stone’ in their maps. It would probably be unsafe to attempt to make it oscillate; but it may be classed among those mysterious remains of antiquity termed ‘logan stones’ or ‘rocking stones’. It is situated in an open field, on a gentle slope which a few yards lower down becomes more steep. This ban appears to have been originally part of a scar or cliff, from which the rock has been worked away, leaving the ‘Buck Stone’ isolated in its present position. In a line with this slope, about twenty-five yards distant, the cliff remains, and is about on the same level as the top of the slope [..] The stone is about 10 ft. high, 33 ft. 6 ins. in girth horizontally, and probably weighs about thirty-five tons.

There are various rude legends connected with this stone, of which the following is one. About three hundred yards distant there is a small, deep lake or tarn called ‘Haweswater’; and the story goes, ‘that in times past an enormous eel or serpent was wont to come up from the lake, and coil itself round the ‘Buck Stone’, and that it devoured sheep from that field.’ The name ‘Buck Stone’ suggests that the knoll on which it stands was a resort of the red deer, which formerly were plentiful here, as is evidenced by frequent discoveries of the antlers of these animals in the sand of the estuary and in the peat mosses of the district.”

From the Journal of the British Archaeological Association for 1874.

Two little phrases about the hill:

When Simonside puts on his cap, rain is sure to follow.

and

Simonside may lee, but Cartington Hill never.

(I suppose the latter means Simonside is sometimes alright weatherwise, but Cartington Hill is always appalling?! A better interpretation might be required.)

– mentioned in ‘Upper Coquetdale, Northumberland: its history, traditions, folk-lore and scenery’ by D D Dixon (1903).

[From] the lucid notes of Capt. Hedley [...]

“A fine entrance to this camp may be seen at the S.E. corner, where a ledge of rock forms an excellent passage to the hill face overhanging Rothbury. This gateway may have had some connection with a rampart and ditch, which, first seen near the County Hotel, run up the hill face towards the camp, and join in a portion of their course a deep gully known as Anton’s Letch, which once used to harbour a ghost [..]”

“A large oblong rock, jutting out from the southern face of the hill on which the camp stands, is known as “Kate’s Kist.” It has a horizontal cleft near its top. Whether this curious name is a freak of modern local nomenclature, or whether it enjoyed a more extended use, going back to pre-Roman times, it is not for us to suggest [..]”

Below the camp also is Cartington Cove, a recess or cave which, local tradition says, is connected by a subterranean passage with Cartington Castle, three miles distant! The rock at Cartington Cove had at one time a series of incised concentric circles and central hollows, which were called in the locality “Cups and Saucers.”

Captain Hedley’s words were originally in Arch. Aeliana vol 13. Quote from ‘Upper Coquetdale, Northumberland: its history, traditions, folk-lore and scenery’, by D D Dixon, 1903.

A short distance below Windyhaugh the Coquet has cut for itself a pasage through the solid rock, forming a long deep pool, known as “The Wedder Loup,” famous for its big fish, but dangerously near the road that skirts its brink.

The tradition attached to this pool is, that during the later moss-trooping days, when that respectable border profession was on the wane, a “lifter” one night carried off a nice plump wedder from the flock grazing on the slopes of Shillhope Law. The daring sheep-stealer had not proceeded very far ere the loss was discovered. Immediately the owner and his men gave chase.

The “Hot Trod” proved short but decisive. Handicapped by the wedder tied round his neck, hill fashion, he was run to bay at this particular spot. To leap the chasm was his only chance of escape; therefore all was risked in one desperate bound. His feet touched the opposite bank; he clutched and struggled, but in vain – the wedder around his neck proved a very millstone to the fugitive, dragging him with his ill-gotten booty backwards into the murky depths of the pool below. Since then its name has been “The Wedder Loup.”

Nah not hugely megalithic, other than the sheep came from Shillhope Law. But the story is one attached to a number of ‘hangman’s stones’ across the country, where the struggling be-shouldered sheep (being balanced on a stone) pulls its thief to a similar doom. It’s called ‘Wedder Leap’ on the modern map.

From ‘Upper Coquetdale, Northumberland: its history, traditions, folk-lore and scenery’, by D D Dixon, 1903.

Some time in the early 1970s, Mr R’s mother and father to-be were driving past Cley Hill with two friends. It was night, and it had been snowing and the fields were covered. They saw lights silently firing out of the ground like a train with its lit-up windows running vertically into the sky. Obviously they thought it was totally strange but Mr R’s rational father tried to think of sensible explanations.. I can’t remember what those might have been, but they watched it for some time. The next day they went back but (And this is the clincher) there were no traces in the unbroken snow where they’d seen the lights. The silence is a weird thing too – and this was way before the lazer shows we might blame now.

Yes it’s easy to misunderstand lights in the sky round modern Warminster what with all the military goings-on in the vicinity. But the snow makes for an extra weird tale. I’d love to hear more of local people’s recent experiences here.

I can’t work out where this ‘cromlech’ can be, I’m wondering whether it is in fact this stone. If not, it must have been close by (but I can’t find one on an old OS map)?

Last summer I came across a native of the neighbourhood of Carnarvon, who told me of a cromlech which interested me[..] The cromlech is called Coetan Arthur, that is to say, Arthur’s Quoit, and it stands in the parish of Llanrug, on a hill-slope belonging to a farm called Y Fodlas (i.e., Hafod-las), and about four miles from Carnarvon.

The spot is commonly called Parc Smith, but the proper name of the mountain is Y Cefn Du. The Cefn Du is exposed, especially to winds from the north and the east [..] and it is on the north-eastern corner of it, on the left of Y Fodlas, that the cromlech is to be seen. There used to be two or three meini hirion near it, but my informant does not know whether they are still in situ.

Now, there was a saying which he heard scores of times from old people, that whoever slept under the cromlech through the night of St. John’s Festival (Nos dydd Gwyl Ifan) would rise in the morning either a giant in point of strength, or else as weak as a dwarf. Instances used to be adduced to prove it, such as old Ffowe of Ty Du, and Margret ‘ch Ifan of Cwmglas, who owed their remarkable strength to the origin here indicated. Others, who were supposed to show traces of the contrary effect of the pernoctation were the Siontwms of the Fuches Las and the Deios of Cwm Brwynog.

My informant does not tell me why the cromlech is called Coetan Arthur, though he intimates that there was a story current which explained it [..]

A letter by John Rhys in Archaeological Cambrensis, January 1888.

From ‘Exploration of a second mound near Stonyhurst’ by the Rev. J R Luck:

Many legends find currency among the country people concerning it. According to one, a powerful chieftain, robed and seated in a chair, was entombed within; another told of a casket of gold lying beneath; while a third relates that Oliver Cromwell, or at least some of his troopers were buried in it. However, the most generally received tradition is that the followers of Wada, slain in the battle between that rebellious chief and King Eardwulf, were buried here, while those slain of the king’s army were buried in the other mound. The victims of the routed army being more numerous than those of the victorious, of course accounts for the greater size of this mound.

Transactions of the Lancashire and Cheshire Antiquarian Society, v13 (1896).
The Rev dug into the mound and concluded it was a natural feature left behind by glaciers, but the modern SMR is more forgiving.

In the cliffs at the west end of Lleyn is a wishing-well called Ffynnon Fair, or St. Mary’s Well; where, to obtain your wish, you have to descend the steps to the well and walk up again to the top with your mouth full of the water. Viewing the position of the well from the sea, I should be disposed to think that the realisation of one’s wish at that price could not be regarded as altogether cheap.

This spring is in the cliff just beneath the stone, it would seem.
From an article on ‘Sacred Wells in Wales’ by John Rhys, in The transactions of the Honourable Society of Cymmrodorion for 1892/3.

At the highest point of this hill is a cairn, with traces of a kerb. It does look a little bit Odd, from this geograph photo by Ken Craig:
geograph.org.uk/photo/534761
Or is that just because of the hint of mist?

The gudeman of Siggie Taft had been at Ori with his oil teind and when returning home in the humin riding on a grey mare and leading a red staig he had to pass Stakkaberg, a feat which in those days required both nerve and hardihood. But Siggie Taft possessed both in a remarkable degree for it was said of him that he neither feared man nor deil in light or mirk.

As he rode slowly along he heard a voice saying “Du ‘at rides de grey and rins de red tell Tona Tivla ‘at Fona Fivla is faan i’ de Velyna Vatyna.” On coming to his house, as he passed the byre door, he called out the strange words he had heard and was surprised to see an “uncan” woman jump up from the side of his cow and in her hurry she left a pan of curious workmanship standing in the bizzi (stall in a byre). As the woman disappeared through the byre lum she explained “O care an’ dol, dat’s my bairn ‘ats faan i’ de kirnin watter.”

The milk pan thus secured was kept in the house of Taft for generations and always brought luck. But it had to be sained every night and left hanging in de ringalodi [crock and links for suspending a pot over the fire]. One night this duty was neglected and in the morning the pan had disappeared. After this the Trows seemed to have taken a spite at the people of Siggie Taft.

Noted down from the narration of William Laurenson, Aith, Fetlar, by E.S. Reid Tate.

From the Shetland Folk-book II, but I have copied it from Katherine Briggs’s ‘Dictionary of British Folk-Tales’.

A staig is a young horse. I know this because of the interesting book here
archive.org/details/glossaryofshetla00angu – a glossary of Shetland words from 1913. There are some really good ones.

Nether Swell. -- Within a stone’s throw from the north-west angle of the church, on the summit of the rising ground, in the allotments, stood, within the memory of the writer of this paper, a familiar, yet most venerable monolith. It was known as the Whistlestone (so called, perhaps, from this, the Wheat Hill, as the one beyond was the Oat Hill). This stone was the last, most probably, of a cist. Many stones were found at its base.

A witticism, amongst the villagers, was this:- “When the Whistlestone hears Stow clock (a mile off) strike twelve, it goes down to Lady-well (at the Hill’s foot) to drink.” Alas, poor Whistlestone!

Farmer Illes, one of the olden time, one day picked up two of a perfect set of teeth, in plowing by the stone, but so harried was he by the weirdy teeth, that he replaced them speedily where he found them.

But a later occupier did what the good folk of the village declared could not be done – for “All the King’s horses and all the King’s men” could not cast down nor carry away Whistlestone – but it was carried away – yet rescued from the roads or profane use. In the vicarage-paddock the pre-historic block now finds asylum.

From v7 of the Transactions of the Bristol and Gloucestershire Archaeological Society (1882/3), in a piece by the Rev. David Royce about an excursion to Stow on the Wold.

The stones here are recorded on Coflein as a ‘stone setting’ and apparently align with a third on the skyline. There is a four stone row and a pair of stones nearby.

[Here are] two unhewn blocks of white quartz, almost certainly placed by artifice, with a small natural outcropping boulder midway between them, to which the local tradition points as marking the site where Owen Glyndwr “held parley, and made his covenant.” The boulders are on the north-western slope of Plynlumon, 100 yards above the right bank of the river Hyddgen [..] Each stone is 2 feet high, and shows no trace of tooling. They are 60 feet apart and are aligned exactly north and south. Though not placed in an elevated position, they can be seen from afar, and show up conspicuously in the sunlight.

From ‘An inventory of the ancient and historical monuments of the county of Montgomery’ (1911).

Your post made me think, Carl. Maybe this stone is the one that features in the folklore about Wibdon Broad Stone about a stone throwing contest (which is where Ike’s thought should have led me before).

According to Coflein there are quite a few cairns on this hilltop. Perhaps you will be able to see which is most suitable for a king to sit on if you visit.

On an eminence bordering with Garvock, called Kinchet, or, more properly, King’s Seat hill, there is a large heap of stones, where, according to tradition, a king used in ancient times to sit in judgment.

Among other complaints here preferred to him, many were lodged against Melville of Allardice, at that time sheriff of the county, for his oppression. The royal judge, either wearied with the complainers, or enraged at the offender, exclaimed, “I wish that sheriff were sodden and supped in brose!” Such was the savage barbarity of the times, that the barons, who were little accustomed to the formalities of a trial, laid hold on these words, and put them literally in execution.

The place where the deed was perpetrated, a the bottom of the hills, on the side next Garvock, is not unlike the cavity of a kiln for drying corn, and still retains the name of the Sheriff’s kettle.

In the Statistical Accounts of Scotland 1791-99 for the parish of Benholme.

On the summit of the nearest hill to the sea, except one, bordering with the parish of Cyrus, and commanding an extensive prospect, stands a rough stone, in the circumference of a stony circle, commonly called the Cloach stone. It is more than a foot thick, measure 8 feet along the ground, and rises nearly 6 above its surface, in an inclined direction towards the north.

As there is no place in the neighbourhood, except one at the South corner of the parish, close by the shore, where stones of the same quality are found, it appears to have been brought from thence, not without considerable difficulty, the intervening space being a pretty steep ascent of more than a mile. It would seem therefore to have been erected for some useful purpose, perhaps with a view to perpetuate some memorable event.

Tradition says, a battle was fought near this place, and the number of flint heads of arrows, found on the side of the hill where it stands, affords some reason to credit this report. Between this and the coast, a great quantity of human bones has been dug up, in the course of improving the land, for nearly the space of a mile along the rising ground above Johnshaven. The bottom and sides of the graves, containing these bones, were all lined with rough stones.

The writer then admits that although lots of bodies could result from a battle, no-one would probably dig them all careful graves. From volume 15 of the Statistical Account of Scotland (1793).

The Canmore record has this as a recumbent stone circle (and that sounds like an impressive recumbent stone, and it’s flanked by upright pillar stones) but also seems to waver also with categorising it as a special sort of cairn: “one of a group in the area which have well-built kerbs and an associated large stone.”

This fort is well protected by sheer cliffs here on Ashie Moor.

In the parish of Dores, and about three miles from Loch ness, are vestiges of a fort called Castel-Dunreachan, or Castal-Dun-richuan, i.e. Castle of the King of the Ocean*, a name perhaps imposed when the king of Norway was master of the sea. To the eastward of that fort, are several cairns, one of which, called Ashi’s hill, is fabled to be the spot where Fingal killed Ashi, son of the Norwegian monarch.

*Yes this all sounds highly unlikely. But names need explanations. From ‘The Topographical, Statistical, and Historical Gazetteer of Scotland’ (1819)

You can see a photo of the fort on Geograph.

Canmore mentions the remains of a cairn here, 35m east of the summit. This hill is also where one of those excellent carved stone balls was found, carved with a spiral and chevron patterns.

It was first designed to build the church [for Fordoun] on the top of the Knock-hill, about a mile or more north-east of the village – a most inconvenient, and the reverse of a central situation; and there the work was actually commenced. As usual, whatever was erected during the day by the masons was destroyed at night by some supernatural beings, who took this method of testifying their aversion to the undertaking. After some time, when both builders and destroyers had perhaps become weary of their respective labours, a supernatural voice was heard to cry,-

Gang farther doun
To Fordoun’s toun.

The hint was taken; and in order to determine the proper site of the church, a mason was desired to throw his hammer at random. The hammer judiciously alighted on the beautiful mound where Paldy’s chapel was already pitched, and there the work was carried into effect without farther interruption.

It would be a very odd place for a church for Fordoun. From ‘The Topographical, Statistical, and Historical Gazetteer of Scotland’ (1845).

On the steep side of Great Finn, an insulated rock that is split and rent into parts rises like the ruins of a castle from out the thick underwood with which the hill is covered: this shapeless mass is called Hob’s House, and tradition states, that it was inhabited by a being of a gigantic stature, who was possessed of great and mysterious powers, and who was known by the name of Hob. This extraordinary personage never appeared by day; but when the inhabitants were asleep in their beds, he traversed the vales, entered their houses, thrashed their corn, and in one single night did the work of ten day-labourers, unseen and unheard, for which service he was recompensed with a bowl of cream, that was duly placed upon the hearth, to be quaffed on the completion of the task he had voluntarily imposed upon himself. This is a tradition by no means confined to the neighbourhood of Monsal-Dale; a similar one prevails in many parts of the kingdom, and particularly in the northern districts...

From ‘Peak Scenery, or the Derbyshire Tourist’ by Eberneezer Rhodes (1824).

In speaking of the rebel laird of Blelack, it may be added that the fairies abode in the Seely Howe, a hollow in the Carne Hillock, upon that property; and, before leaving for the wars of the ‘45, the laird, determined to dislodge them from his lands, employed for that purpose a reputed magician, named John Farquharson, tacksman in Parks. The fairies, however, refused to obey his spell until he should assign them some other place of abode, which he did by sending them to the Hill of Fare, near Banchory! But, disliking their new quarters very much, the superstitious aver that the fairies pronounced this imprecation upon Gordon:--

“Dool, dool to Blelack,
And dool to Blelack’s heir,
For drivin’ us from the Seely Howe
To the cauld hill o’ Fare!”

The malediction of the fairies against Farquharson was still more eldritch:--

“While corn and girs grows to the air,
John Farquharson and his seed shall thrive nae mair!”

It is added that Farquharson, whose circumstances went to the bad from the day he dislodged the fairies, left his native country and was never again heard of. Matters also went ill with the Gordons. The rebel laird died without lawful issue, when the estate passed to Charles Rose, a sister’s son...

From ‘Epitaphs and inscriptions from burial grounds and old buildings in the north-east of Scotland’ by Andrew Jervise (1875).

I would imagine the cavern mentioned could be Kinder Low cavern, very near to this cairn.

At a meeting of the Society of Manchester Scientific Students, Sept. 27, 1882, the members visited Hayfield. On leaving Hayfield railway station the party proceeded to the edge of Leygate Moor. From thence they reached the Old Oak wood near the lower house. A short walk from here is the Downfall. Near here is the Mermaid’s Pool, of which the natives have a tradition that a beautiful woman lives in the side of the Scout; that she comes to bathe every day in the Mermaid’s Well, and that the man who has the good luck to behold her bathing will become immortal and never die. The old people of Hayfield, moreover, tell a long story of a man who, sometime in the last century, went from Hayfield over the Scout, and was lucky enough to meet this mountain nymph, by whom he was conducted to a cavern hard by. Tradition adds that she was pleased with this humble mortal, and that he lingered there some time, when she conferred on him the precious gift of immortality.

From the Notes and Queries section of v1/n1 of the Folk-Lore Journal (1883).

A bit more to Drew’s story:

There died one hundred and fifteen years ago a Mr. Alexander Hogg of London, merchant, leaving among other benefactions to his native parish of Durris, Kincardineshire, ten shillings a year to the herds around the hill of Cairnshee (Fairies’ Cairn) for the purpose of making a Midsummer bonfire, in remembrance of the fact that he as a boy herded cattle there. A further sum was left to provide barrels of ale, cheese, and bread for those who assemble to witness the celebration. This curious observance is duly followed every year, and forms one of the attractions of the district. As many as half a dozen musicians resort to the hill, and dancing is kept up till midnight or longer.

Can it be doubted that Mr. Hogg thus gave new life to an old custom which had been known to his boyhood? [*] Let us note some particulars that go to prove its connection with prehistoric times.

The fire must be lit on the twenty-fourth of June just as the last limb of the sun disappears beneath the horizon.
The height on which the fire is lit is the highest eminence in the district from which the beholders come, and thus the sun would be seen at the last possible moment.
The herds must, according to the conditions of the will, collect the fuel themselves, each bringing as many bundles as possible so that a large fire may result. As there are ten lads on the surrounding farms.. the pile is often of considerable dimensions.

The young men are in the habit of pushing each other through the smoke and flames. This may arise from a belief that the person so “passed” would be charmed against disease during the coming year. Some would see in the action an indication of early human sacrifice. [**] I have been at many ‘herds’ fires’ (about ten I think) and have invariably seen it done. It is possible, however, that in this instance it is nothing but a display of animal spirits. But in any case I think there is enough evidence to show that the rite is a relic of pagan times...

* Possibly not. Victorians were even more desperate to find Traces of Our Pagan Past than we are.
** Some would see in the action an indication of a large number of pissed young men.
Nevertheless, it all sounds like a lot of fun and should be reinstated immediately.

From ‘Midsummer Bonfires’ by A. MacDonald, in Folklore, Vol. 15, No. 1 (Mar. 25, 1904), pp. 105-106

This could be the place:

Often sickness among a herd followed the removal of a stone. Near Auchleven in Premnay, once stood a stone circle now destroyed. The farmer, who moved the stones, soon after lost many of his cattle and was ruined.

From ‘Primitive Beliefs in the Northeast of Scotland’ by J M McPherson (1929).

On Caynham Camp, is the site of an ancient Castle, noticed by Leland, who says of it, “Kainsham, or Kensham Castle, clene down, stood within two miles of Ludloe, on a hill top.” “It belonged,” says Camden,“to the Mortimers, and the Church to Wigmore Abbey.” Two fields on the east side are yet called the Castle fields; and immediately below is another in which a deep and wide entrenchment occupies the principal part. Tradition says that this latter was a depository for horses and military stores during the siege of Ludlow Castle, by Cromwell.

On top of the hill, is a bank covered with trees and underwood, and encircling an open space, consisting of six or seven acres. Around this there is a walk, with benches, opposite to which are openings, commanding most delightful prospects, not only of the local beauties of the neighbourhood of Ludlow, but of Malvern Hill, the Black Mountains in Brecknockshire, and other distant objects.

In ‘The history and antiquities of the town of Ludlow and its ancient castle’ by Thomas Wright, 1822.

So sacred are these stones that, “it is generally averred hereabouts,” writes Aubrey, “that pieces of them putt into their Wells, doe drive away the Toades, with which their wells are much infested, and this course they use still. It is also averred that no Magpye, Toade, or Snake was ever seen here.”

Aubrey quoted in ‘Jottings on some of the objects of interest in the Stonehenge Excursion’ by Edward Stevens (1882), but I will find out the original source.

A ‘fairy-woman’ lived at the Chair of Kildare. Well, she wasn’t actually a fairy, but something like an intermediary who also dealt in herbal medicine, a bit of veterinarianism, seeing the future, that sort of thing. In fact, for once, it wouldn’t seem like new age woo to claim she was a bit like a shaman. Not only could a fairy-woman or man “hold some mysterious sort of communication with the denizens of moats or raths” but they’d been over the Other Side: “In some cases it was rumoured that they had been changelings originally.” Changelings were fairy children who were sickly who had been swapped for your own, obviously bouncing and healthy, baby. With a bit of intervention from someone who knew what they were doing, your child could sometimes be brought back. In truth this would have looked like distancing yourself from your sickly child and leaving it out on a dungheap to die, but in a socially acceptable sort of fashion.

“..as they usually lived a solitary and retired life, no ordinary sare of mystery shrouded their motions. [They] professed a familiar acquaintance with all secrets – past, present and future: the cure of most diseases affecting man and beasts; the discovery and restoration of lost goods; a description and detection of the thief if property had been stolen; fortune-telling, and a knowledge regarding all matters of personal concern; causing cream to produce butter in greater abundance: whilst they often took care to impress.. an opinion that their friendship would be desirable to prevent the certain evil effects of fairy resentment.”

“Within the present century, one of these fairy-women, who was named Moll Anthony, lived near the Red Hills at the Chair of Kildare ... Her reputation as a posessor of supernatural knowledge and divination drew crowds of distant visitors to her daily, and from the most remote parts of Ireland. In various instances they were furnished with a bottle containing some supposed curative liquid, and directed to return homewards without falling asleep on their journey. This bottle was filled with water, darkly coloured by a decoction of herbs, gathered with certain incantations near a rath that afforded the customary materia medica of fairy-doctors for the cure of a special disease on which consultation was required.”

The author is unimpressed: “The most accomplished and skilful member of the medical faculty seldom received a more remunerative fee for his services on behalf of a patient than the wise woman of the Red Hills pocketed from her credulous dupes.” (I doubt it).

The piece also says: “After the death of Moll Anthony, her daughter followed the same profession, but never enjoyed a like celebrity.”

From ‘The Gentleman’s Magazine Library: English Traditional Lore’ 1868.

While speaking of English stories, I may relate one told to myself and my friend, Mr. J. J. Foster, at Cearne in Dorsetshire. We were questioning a labourer as to the giant figure cut in the turf at that place. He assured us that it was supposed to be the representation of a Danish giant who led an invasion of this coast, and lay on the side of the hill to sleep; while asleep the peasantry tied him down to the ground and cut off his head, and the outline in the turf represents the place where the giant lay. Upon being asked how long ago this was supposed to be, the answer was, “About a hundred years.”

From ‘The Gentleman’s Magazine Library: English Traditional Lore’ 1868.

A slightly different version, from Ruth Tongue’s ‘Somerset Folklore’, and heard from a gardener in Corfe. The ‘Digital Digging’ website confirms that the site is known as ‘Castle Rache’ locally, with the topmost bit being ‘the Beacon’.

There was a vast treasure hidden on Castle Rach, and it was guarded by devils; but the men of Corfe were both valiant and poor and they determined to dig it up. They went to the priest and he promised to come with them, bringing some salt and holy water. The church bells were rung to drive away the devils and the digging began. It was highly successful. So vast a treasure did their spades uncover that one man swore in sheer surprise. At once the chest sank out of sight, the devils came back and every man, including the priest, died within a year.

Roby concocts a complicated story in ‘Popular Traditions of Lancashire‘ (1843). You can’t help thinking you’d be better off waiting for the film version. But I’ll try to summarise.

The story starts off with three rich men out riding with their servants. One of them is a Pilkington, from Rivington Hall. An awful storm blew up, and they decided to shelter / watch it from the tower on Rivington Pike. Amidst the eldritch thunder and lightning they heard a bang on the door – all the dogs cowered but one of the men, Norton, opened the door (cue creaky hinge noises). Outside was revealed the silhouette of a gigantic dark-dressed figure wearing a low browed hat, sat on a horse. Everyone else was scared to death, but Norton seemed to recognise the stranger – ‘it’s my uncle, who disappeared twelve years this very night’. Whaat? Everyone else looked on in confusion as he galloped off with the terrifying figure.

Pilkington was weighing up whether to follow his friend, but one of the servants warned against it.. the Spectre Horseman.. it must be ten, no, twelve years since my father encountered him.. he went out poaching, it was the same night as tonight, St. Bartlemy’s Eve. The dogs came back without him, they stank. I went out to look for him, I was terrified he’d got stuck in a bog. I had no luck, I returned for the dogs, but then my father turned up at the house in a right state – ‘I’ve seen th’ ould one’.. A man on a black horse had stopped him on the moor – “Can’st thou show me to the Two Lads?” he said. ‘My father began to wonder what this unlikely thing could want there at the Two Lads, which as you know is on the highest and ugliest part of the whole commoning; a place which is always said to have a bad name sticking to it.‘

Having got there, he was about to leave, but the strange man asked him to stay – ‘Now, lift up that big heap of stones there, and I’ll tell you what to do with them.’ ‘Sir,’ says my father, ‘You are in jest.’ But not a bit of it – the other smacked them with his horse switch, and up they jumped like crows from a corn-field. The dogs started howling and turned for home, and father was left with the Spectre Horseman that was always said to ramble about these hills, sometimes in the air, sometimes on the ground, without ever a footprint. Where the stones had been there was a great gaping hole, and horribly, a great long black arm came thrusting out of it. ‘Take what he gives you!’ came a voice like thunder. But father couldn’t move. ‘Hurry or I shall miss my time!‘

But suddenly there were the sound of steps through the heather and the horseman looked more cheerful – ‘Go, fool, here is one better than thee’, and he kicked the poor man out of the way.

To cut this excessively long story short, Pilkington and the others decided to head up to the Two Lads to see if they could save their friend. They found him in a terrible condition but alive. Norton explained how when the mysterious horseman had turned up, he’d felt under the influence of a dream, convinced that the figure was that of his uncle, who had gone missing long before. The story gets a bit vampirey or bodysnatchers or something, as though the Fiend has to find himself a new body every twelve years. But somehow Norton manages to resist, and the Spectre Horseman appears no more. So you should be safe up there.

But the book suggests that the story’s not entirely newly made up – that The tradition prevalent in the south of Lancashire ... was that a dark gigantic rider, upon a steed of vast dimensions, was wont to traverse in stormy nights the hills of Horwich Moor, and the usual spot of his disappearance [was] one of those monuments which we call Druidical, for want of a better name.

Btw, it seems that St Bartholomew’s day was the day that autumn began. So that’s probably why the devil was in a hurry. But he shouldn’t have left everything to the last minute, should he.
There’s a link at the Darlington and Stockton Times that’s quite interesting.

Strange goings-on (well possibly), at the hillfort, as related by Bamboo at the Fortean Times Message Board.

I wonder if these stones (which you can read the details of at Canmore ) have any markings on them. Or perhaps the stone in the story is the nearby Clach A Cholumain. There seem to be plenty of candidates, judging by the photos on Mark Stevens‘ “>‘Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland’ (1860). It goes on a bit. But it describes this very strange bit of river, which is in a chasm, but the sound of it gets funneled up. The banks were somewhere where ‘no one would choose to walk alone’ – but the lady of the house of Balconie used to walk with her maid there. Though the maid thought she was a bit weird to be honest. One night she freaked the girl out by trying to make her go near the edge. ‘No nearer, ma’am’ squeaked the terrified girl, ‘Strange sights have been seen in the gully after nightfall.. I shall swoon with terror and fall over.‘

But the lady gets really nasty and shrieks ‘Nay wretch there is no escape!’ and drags her towards the chasm.. suddenly there’s a ‘strong masculine voice’ and a dark-looking man in green appears, saying ‘let me accompany you – your surety must be a willing one’. The maid escapes and the lady lets herself be led miserably to the edge.

“She turned round on reaching the precipice, and, untying from her belt a bunch of household keys, flung them up the bank towards the girl; and then, taking what seemed to be a farewell look of the setting sun.. she disappeared with her companion behind the nearer edge of the gulf. The keys struck, in falling, against a huge granitic boulder, and sinking into it as if it were a mass of melted wax, left an impression which is still pointed out to the curious visitor.”

Ten years later a man walked up the stream and found a cave in which he met the lady of Balconie.. but you could read that bit for yourself.

Another version of the stone’s origins:

There is a farm near Wrington called Hailstones Farm, but some folk say it should really be Hurlerstone Farm, on account of the Devil picking up a great rock lying there and throwing it right over the Mendips to hit Cranmore Church. Of course, he missed, but it was a tidy throw even for “the Old Boy”.

Some say it was a giant dropped it or made a bad shot of it. Anyhow, the rock lies on the edge of a cliff in the woods and they call them Hurdlestone Woods. And there is a Giant’s Grave there too.

From Ruth L. Tongue’s 1965 ‘Somerset Folklore’. She heard it in Frome and Cranmore in 1945.

There’s a bridge over the river at the foot of this fort. The following pretty muddled story kind of suggests the fort and the bridge (and a big stone somewhere here too) are all the Devil’s Work:

There were once a curious cat over to Spire, a proper mischievous nuisance that cat were, always poking into anything new. [..] One day he went for a walk and he found Mounsey Castle. “Now who dropped this little lot?” says he. “I must go and see.” Then in the wood-side he come on a gurt stone, twelve foot or more, just dropped there, and he knew he were getting nearer. Then he heard yells of rage, and off he scuttles to see what ‘twas and it were the Devil and Parson, one on each side of the Barle and a new stone bridge atween ‘n. “I’ll have a look-see at that,” says Cat, and downhill he goes.

Says Parson to Devil, “You shan’t have none of my souls be first steps on your bridge. They bain’t going’ Somewhere Else’.”
“You old black crow,” yells Devil.
“If I be a crow,” says Parson, “I bain’t so black as yew!”
And just then puss walk out over on to Tarr Steps, to look it over, no matter if he’d been invited or no. The Devil pounced on ‘n like a lightning flash – and poor Cat goed Somewhere Else quicker than you could think!

The Tarr Steps are some way away, and they’re not really a ‘bridge’ as such (although yeah they’re probably the devil’s work), so they don’t need to be dragged into the story really, when there’s a bridge at hand at Mounsey Castle. The story’s like the one at the Devil’s Bridge near Aberystwyth – but there the Parson tricks the Devil into taking an animal rather than his parishoners: here the animal’s stupid enough to trap himself.

From Ruth Tongue’s ‘Folktales of England’, collected 1963.

The Magic map shows about 15 round barrows in this area. Surely they add to its weirdness and contribute to it featuring in this story:

..the following story [was] taken down by me verbatim from an old woman in the parish of Luffincott in North Devon. I will give it in her own words:--

“There was an old woman lived in Bridgerule parish, and she had a very handsome daughter. One evening a carriage and four drove to the door, and a gentleman stepped out. He was a fine-looking man, and he made some excuse to stay in the cottage talking, and he made love to the maiden, and she was rather taken with him. Then he drove away, but next evening he came again, and it was just the same thing; and he axed the maid if on the third night she would go in the coach with him, and be married. She said Yes; and he made her swear that she would.

“Well, the old mother did not think that all was quite right, so she went to the pars’n of Bridgerule and axed he about it. ‘My dear,’ said he, ‘I reckon it’s the Old Un. Now look y’ here. Take this ‘ere candle, and ax that gen’leman next time he comes to let your Polly alone till this ‘ere candle be burnt out. Then take it, blow it out, and rin along on all your legs to me.‘

“So the old woman took the candle.

“Next night the gen’leman came in his carriage and four, and he went into the cottage and axed the maid to come wi’ he, as she’d sworn and promised. She said, ‘I will, but you must give me a bit o’ time to dress myself.’ He said, ‘I’ll give you till thickey candle be burnt out.‘

“Now, when he had said this, the old woman blew the candle out and rinned away as fast as she could, right on end to Bridgerule, and the pars’n he tooked the can’l and walled it up in the side o’ the church; you can see where it be to this day (it is the rood loft staircase upper door, now walled up). Well, when the gen’leman saw he was done, he got into his carriage and drove away, and he drove till he comed to Affaland Moor, and then all to wance down went the carriage and horses and all into a sort o bog there, and blue flames came up all round where they went down.”

The conversion of a dead lover into the devil is obviously a Christianised modification of a very ancient belief, that the dead do come and claim female companions. In all likelihood there lingered on a tradition of some gentleman having been engulfed in the morass of Affaland.

From his ‘Book of Folklore’ by the excellent Sabine Baring-Gould (1913).

Between [Mullion] and the Lizard is a fine headland, the Rill, and on its summit are a number of loose, rough stones, known as the Apron String, which the country people say were brought here by an evil spirit, who intended to build with them a bridge across to France for the convenience of smugglers. He was hastening along with his load, which he carried in his apron, when one of its strings broke, and in despair he gave up the idea.

From ‘Cornish Folk-Lore’ by M A Courtney, in the Folk-Lore Journal, v5 n1 (1887).

The Statistical Account of 1793 is quite sure that this stone commemorates where the leader of the Danes, Camus, was killed. The writer called upon George Buchanan’s history of Scotland to back him up. That was written in the late 16th century. I decided to look it up and the relevant chapter, about Malcolm II (the Eighty Third king of Scotland, no less) is really quite grippingly written, different armies dashing about, Malcolm being Wounded in the Head, people being discouraged and crest-fallen, but then things turning about and the Danes “flying to the Mountains towards Murray, before [Camus] had gone two miles, was overtaken by the Pursuers, and he and all his Men cut off. There are monuments extant of this Victory, in an Obeliske, and a Neighbouring Village, which as yet retains the Memorable Name of Camus.” There’s some ghastly stuff about Malcolm’s eventual end as well, but I will resist quoting it.

I’m not convinced though, that it particularly refers to this location in Buchanan’s book. But the story is no doubt the same whichever Camus stone you’re at (and there are / were a number of them).

Even people who’ve known the hill all their lives can find it has a strange and unpleasant atmosphere sometimes. Harry Poole’s account is at the Dorset Books website. There’s plenty of reading between the lines that needs to be done.

I thought I knew the Hill and all its moods after half a lifetime of toiling on its steep sides but this was a new facet, one that I had not come across before. The chilly atmosphere had become oppressive and there was something different, something strange, something which took my concentration for a moment. It came between me and the job I was doing and I cannot account for it try as I will. It’s no good saying you should be more careful. I’ve been using edge tools for over fifty years and apart from an accident with a circular saw which was my own fault, nothing like this has happened before...

There are many of his stories on the website about the area. It’s rather nice that you can’t always tell the line between fact, memory and imagination.

In the Cornish language these stones are called ‘Dons Mein’ which mean Dancing Stones or Dance Stones. About 600 yards to the north there are two standing stones about 200 yards from each other, and to the north-west, about 100 yards distant, another stone 8 feet to 10 feet high above ground.

According to an old tale told by the peasants, the two first-mentioned stones whistle, the third plays, and the 19 dance when they hear the cock crow.

From the Swedish ‘industrial spy’ R R Angerstein’s illustrated travel diary 1753-55’ (readable on Google Books).

There are several prehistoric round barrows on Inkpen Hill, which are supposed to contain buried treasure, including a coffin made either of solid gold or of silver. One particular barrow, on Saddler’s Farm, is said to be haunted by a headless ghost; it is also said that nineteenth century archaeologists who tried to open it up were driven away by violent thunder and lightning.

Westwood and Simpson (’Lore of the Land’, 2005), apparently drawing on Grinsell’s Folklore of Prehistoric Sites, and 3rd Stone magazine v47.

Westwood and Simpson, in their ‘Lore of the Land’ (2005), mention that a golden calf is supposed to be buried here. I wonder if it’s got anything to do with the nearby Cow Down. They prefer biblical explanations. But I like mine.

There is a large tumulus in Stanmore field.. called Burrow Hill by the common people; who have a tradition that a man of that name was interred there in a gold or silver coffin. This barrow.. was opened during the month of April, 1815..

The common people state that an attempt to open this barrow was made about fifty years ago, but the design was frustrated by a dreadful hailstorm, with lightning, which compelled the labourers to desist. Thunder being also heard during the second attempt in question, the excavators were universally considered as the disturbers of the atmosphere; those that remembered the previous event, remarking, that “the undertaking seemed not altogether pleasing to the Lord!”

A terrific thunder-storm happening on the following day, the labourers were obliged to desist and take refuge in a neighbouring cottage; which had such an effect on the mind of one of the workmen employed, that he actually refused to come again. The recurrence of a thunder storm during this, the second attempt, was generally considered as remarkable; but such was its melancholy influence on this poor fellow that he became completely deranged, and never did a day’s work afterwards; being confined in St. Luke’s and other lunatic asylums for the remainder of his life. It is but justice to state, that Mr Long [the director of the excavation] had never heard of this melancholy result of his labours until the present year.

Among other ridiculous stories and puerile superstitions respecting this tumulus, the peasantry relate that it is inhabited by fairies; and that a certain ploughman having broken his share, and gone home to procure some tools, found on his return that the plough had already been mended.

From ‘The history and antiquities of the hundred of Compton, Berks’ by John Snare, 1844.

There is a remarkable tradition amongst the peasantry, who state that this fosse*, from one end to the other, was dug by the Devil in a single night, and that retiring to the summit of the downs he there scraped his spade, the mould from which formed the well-known barrow, Cuckhamsley Hill! Others narrate that it is a furrow made by the Devil, who traversed these downs with his plough!

*ie the Devil’s Dyke or Grim’s Ditch.

From ‘The history and antiquities of the hundred of Compton, Berks’ by John Snare, 1844.

Henry Bett gives a different version of the legend in English Legends (1950). he says that the Jumps Inn, on the road to the church, was so-called because on the spot where it stands three youths were jumping on a Sunday when a mysterious stranger joined them and offered to teach them how to leap. He made three marvellous leaps, the extent of which, says Bett, was still shown (presumably he is referring to the standing stone or stones). The terrified youths tried to escape, but the Devil seized them and they all vanished in a blue flame.

Retold in Westwood and Simpson’s ‘Lore of the Land’ (2005).

It seems no difficult matter to point out the time of year when this great prince died, who is here [in Silbury] interr’d, viz. about the beginning of our present April. I gather it from this circumstance. The country people ahve an anniversary meeting on the top of Silbury-hill on every palm-Sunday, when they make merry with cakes, figs, sugar, and water fetch’d from the Swallow-head, or spring of the Kennet. This spring was much more remarkable than at present, gushing out of the earth, in a continued stream. They say it was spoil’d by digging for a fox who earth’d above, in some cranny thereabouts; this disturb’d the sacred nymphs, in a poetical way of speaking.

... I took notice that apium grows plentifully about the spring-head of the Kennet. Pliny writes defunctorum epulis dicatum apium. To this day the country people have a particular regard for the herbs growing there, and a high opinion of their virtue.

This is from Stukeley’s ‘Abury’, chapter 9 (courtesy of the excellent images at Avebury Now
avebury-web.co.uk/AburyWS/AburyWS.html ).

Hmm, Pliny could be talking about the plant being served at feasts for the dead. But my latin is non-existent, perhaps someone else can translate? I imagine Apium is a carrot-family water-celeryish sort of plant. Maybe fool’s watercress or something similar? Culpeper said that Apium “opens stoppings of the liver, and spleen, cleanses the blood, provokes the menses, helps a cold stomach to digest its meat, and is good against the yellow jaundice”. But that could have been a totally different plant too...

... an artificial peculiarity about [Mither Tap] makes it still more worthy of notice – the great mass of stones that encircles the summit like a fortification... Naturally the Picts – and probably deservedly – get the credit of the building... The fortification has also been attributed to Sir Andrew Leslie of Balquhain, the Earl of Mar’s “master of horse,” who fought and was killed at the Battle of Harlaw.

Tradition has it that at one time he lived on the top, and carried off young women to this rude fortress, as well as took shelter there himself when his lawlessness put him in disgrace with his superior. But there are several reasons why this tradition should not be credited, besides the absurd account which it gives as to the origin of the Maiden Causeway...

There is another, and much later, tradition that the fortress was used as a hiding place by Lord Pitsligo after he had been attainted for his share in the rebellion of ‘45. An active search was made for him after the Battle of Culloden, but he always contrived, though often very narrowly, to evade his pursuers...

When on Bennachie he occasionally visited his friend General Horn at Logie-Elphinstone, and had a night’s hard drinking with him. On the General’s wife remonstrating with him against this habit, Lord Pitsligo replied that, “if she was sittin’ upon a cauld, bare stane up on Bennachie wi’ naething but burn water, she micht ca’ that ‘hard drinkin’.’”

The well is now dry, the water having disappeared it is said, in a single night, though some years ago it gave a fair supply of excellent water. At one time it was filled up with stones, to the disgust of the natives, by a crofter-squatter, who was annoyed by his sheep wandering to the top of the Mither Tap, and occasionally falling into the well. The stones have since been partly removed, but water appears to have forsaken the place.

The last bit sounds suspiciously superstitious, that by insulting the well by filling it in, it decided it wouldn’t bother any more. Maybe.

This and masses more in Alex. Inkson McConnochie’s ‘Bennachie’ (1890) which is on the Archive.orgwebsite.

About three quarters of a mile south-west of Mugdrum cross, are the remains of another celebrated cross, Norman Macduff’s cross, on which so much has been written, both in prose and rhyme. It is situated upon the high ground, in an opening of the Ochils which forms a pass from the valley of Strathearn into the central portion of Fife. This cross is said to have been broken in pieces by the Reformers, on their way from Perth to Lindores; and nothing now remains but the large square block of freestone which formed the pedestal. [..] There are several holes or indentations on its different faces, which tradition says were nine in number, and in which nine rings were at one time fixed. [..] It formed a girth or sanctuary for any of the clan Macduff, or any related to the chief within the ninth degree, who had been guilty of “suddand chaudmelle,” or unpremeditated slaughter. In consequence of this privilege any person entitled to take advantage of it, and requiring its security, fled to the cross, and laying hold of one of the rings, punishment was remitted on his washing nine times at the stone, and paying nine cows and a colpendach or young cow; the nine cows being fastened to the rings. [...] a powerful spring called the Nine wells, where it is supposed that the ablutions took place, still takes its rise at no great distance from the cross.

[..] It was on all occasions necessary when the privilege of Cross-Macduff was claimed, that proof should be given of consanguinity within the limited degree; and where in any case the claimant failed in establishing his right, he was instantly put to death, and buried near the stone. There were formerly several artificial airns and tumuli around the cross, and one rather larger than the rest about fifty yards to the north, but the progress of agriculture which has brought the ploughshare over the fields around the cross, has now removed all traces of them. [..] “Superstition,” says Cant, “forbids the opening of any of them; no person in the neighbourhood will assist for any consideration, nor will any person in or about Newburgh travel that way when dark, for they affirm that spectres and bogies, as they call them, haunt that place.”

From ‘The topographical, statistical and historical gazetteer of Scotland’ v2, published by A Fullarton and Co, 1856.

More details. It’s not on Canmap but if it’s earthfast maybe it is still there?

At a place called Killiesmont, in this parish, there is one of those pieces of ground, sometimes found in Scotland, variously known by the name of the Guidman’s Craft, or the “Gi’en Rig,” that is, given or appropriated to the sole use of the devil, in order to propitiate the good services of that malign being. This piece of land is on the southern declivity of a lofty eminence. At the upper end of the ridge, there is a flat circular stone of about eight feet in diameter, in which there are a number of holes, but for what purpose tradition is silent.

Like other crofts of this description in Scotland, the present remained long uncultivated, in spite of the spread of intelligence. The first attempt to reclaim it was made not more than fifty years since, when a farmer endeavoured to improve it; but , by an accidental circumstance, it happened that no sooner had the plough entered the ground than one of the oxen dropped down dead. Taking this as an irrefragable proof of the indignation of its supernatural proprietor, the peasant desisted, and it remained untilled till it came into the possession of the present occupant, who has had the good taste to allow the large flat stone to remain, a memorial of the idle fancies of preceding generations.

The Gazetteer of Scotland, by Robert and William Chambers. V1, 1844.